In Excelsius Deo
by Talon Marlow
Summary: Even Bruce Wayne cannot completely escape the infectious Christmas spirit, but he makes a valiant effort.


**Author's Notes:** Merry Christmas, one and all. In entertaining insufferable relatives this holiday season, do remember that it could always be worse: that could be Batman at your table. If you enjoy this short story, be a dear and let me know.

_12/15/04: Thank you, Cecilia, for pointing out my mistake. It has been edited accordingly._

* * *

Bruce Wayne glared at the Christmas gift he had received from his oldest ward. It lay in his hand, the Batman action figure scowling right back up at him. The phone in his other hand was ringing against his ear. 

"Ho-ho-hello!" Leave it to Dick Grayson to have a seasonal answer for the telephone. The boy always did have that incorrigible penchant for corny jokes.

"Is this supposed to be funny?" Bruce demanded by way of greeting.

"Huh? Bruce? Oh, you got your present?" A distinct tone of amusement filled the other's voice.

"What am I supposed to do with it?" Bruce regarded the toy miniature of his alter ego uneasily.

"What do you mean 'What am I supposed to do with it'?"

"Well, what purpose does it serve?" Bruce was getting annoyed now. Which wasn't saying much, really.

Dick's laughter echoed over the phone. "It's a joke, Bruce. You know, some people in the world have this thing I like to call 'a sense of humor'. If you were one of those people, you would call me up and say, 'Ha! Good one, Dick!' and would send me a Nightwing figure in rebuttal, that sort of thing."

"How is this a joke? I fail to see the humor in it. It's funny because I'm Batman, and this toy is also Batman?"

"…Um, yeah, pretty much…"

"How is that funny?"

"Bruce, you're insane, you know that? Next Christmas, you're getting a fruitcake. Happy holidays, Scrooge; see you Christmas Eve." The connection was broken with a click. Bruce set the phone into its cradle and stared at the Batman figure for a moment more.

For a fleeting self-conscious moment, he rubbed at his chin. Was his face really _that_ square?

* * *

"DECK THE HALLS WITH BOUGHS OF HOLLY! FA LA LA LA LA--" 

"Dick is here!" Timothy Drake, Bruce's current ward, announced unnecessarily as the dutiful butler Alfred crossed the foyer to answer the door. Bruce closed his eyes against the onslaught of Christmas spirit. For God's sake, how did people stand all of this cheer? He felt slightly nauseated, and it wasn't from egg nog.

"LA LA LA LAAAAA!" Dick finished with gusto as Alfred opened the door to admit him into the grand Wayne Manor, his arms opened wide to punctuate his grand finale. "Hey, Tim. Are you shrinking? Dang, you're short. Loser."

"Shutup, stupid." The two boys greeted each other with punches in the shoulders. Brotherly love.

"I did not teach either of you two gentlemen to speak in such a crude manner," Alfred sniffed disapprovingly before returning to attend the duck roasting in the kitchen. It scented the air along with gingerbread and faint whiffs of pine from the magnificent tree that glowed just beyond the entrance to the main den. Bruce would be glad when it was taken down and the room was dark again. It just served no useful function, and he had no appreciation for such trivialities. Plus, it had no right to look so jolly. This was his house, dammit, and twinkly lights and tinsel were not his chosen décor. But Timothy and Alfred had insisted…

Dick caught sight of Bruce, hanging back in the shadows that seemed to just follow him around, and his eyes lit with mischief. "P-please, sir," the older boy begged, putting on a faux lisp, accent,and hobble as he made his way over to his mentor. "A place to stay from the bitter cold? Alms for the poor?" Dick pretended to shake an invisible tin cup before him. Tim snickered from his station by the door.

Bruce regarded his eldest boy dryly for a minute before extending his hand. "Hello, Dick. Alfred has a room ready for you."

Dick shook his head in wonder. "You could at least PRETEND to be happy to see me." He grabbed the offered hand and pulled Bruce into a hug. Bruce stood stiff in the embrace until released. "Well, you didn't pull away and punch me like last year," Dick commended. "It's a start. Hey Tim, help me get my bags, huh, loser?"

"Screw you, butthead." Tim eagerly grabbed one of Dick's two bags and the boys began pounding up the staircase, talking animatedly about Christmas and life and their respective adventures as their crimefighting personas. "And Bruce is letting me go out by myself sometimes now…" Bruce heard Tim proudly inform the elder boy before they were out of earshot.

Bruce looked to his feet, allowing a rare smile. Tim was growing more skilled in his duties as Robin as time wore on. It was a tough role to fill, but the vigilant boy had risen to meet the challenge and then some. And Dick, lone protector of the criminal slum of Bludhaven, maintained his optimistic outlook on life despite the gruesome demands of his part in the war on crime. Bruce often chided him for naivety, as he referred to Dick's good nature, but wished within a part of his heart that he'd never admit to having that he were more like him.

And then the doorbell rang and in walked someone who reminded Bruce exactly why he had to be the sensible one around here. "Merry Christmas, Bruce!" A large man shouldering large packages on his massive arms thanked Alfred with a nod and stepped forward to hug Bruce before he could protest. What was with these people? Why did they think the holidays gave them an excuse to touch him?

"Hi, Clark," Bruce responded flatly before Clark relented his grasp. "Glad you could make it, though I don't recall inviting you."

Clark Kent blushed deeply, and Bruce marveled at the fact that a Kryptonian was even able to suffer such a human reaction to abashment. "You didn't? Alfred called and asked us to--"

"Clark, just ignore him," came the sage advice of a petite brunette bundled in a coat and scarf at the doorway. Alfred helped her with her coat before she walked up to peck Bruce on the cheek. "He's glad to see us and he knows it."

"It is nice to have everyone together for Christmas," Alfred commented pointedly at Bruce before disappearing again into the kitchen to finish the burgeoning holiday feast.

"I'm glad, Lois," Bruce assured her.

"He really is," Dick seconded as he and Tim emerged from the upstairs landing. "See how he's only glowering as opposed to scowling? That's definitely a good sign."

"I only get grounded for one month instead of two when he glowers," Tim chimed helpfully.

"Boys, get the Kents' bags," Bruce demanded.

"That's okay," Clark protested, taking hold of a bag that Lois had carried in. "I can--"

"I said for the boys to get them," Bruce warned lowly. Clark instantly released the suitcase.

"Or they can get them, if you insist," the agreeable man conceded awkwardly.

"That's okay, Clark," Dick grinned as he and Tim lifted the luggage and made their way upstairs for the second time. "Bruce misses me living here, and expresses that by exercising his right to boss me around when I'm under his roof. It's nostalgic for him, you see."

Clark laughed jovially. "Thank you, boys." Lois tossed them a wink and Tim reddened, but hid a pleased smile all the same.

"We'll be leaving midday tomorrow to go to the farm," Clark promised. Bruce knew that the other man couldn't go through a Christmas day without seeing his adoptive parents.

Bruce nodded wordlessly. Lois huffed.

"Don't start missing us already or anything," she chided. "Surely you don't want to spend Christmas all alone in this big house."

"Christmas is just another day." Bruce turned to gaze into the fireplace. Clark rubbed at the back of his neck uncomfortably.

"I'm going to go upstairs and catch up with Dick and Tim," Lois informed the two men. She threw Clark a meaningful glance that Bruce did not miss before she, too, vanished beyond the curve of the staircase. Clark continued to rub his neck and stare at his feet before initiating forced conversation, as Bruce knew he inevitably would. Clark: Fixer of all Things. Or so he tried to be.

"This oughta be a great Christmas, huh, Bruce?" He smiled far too brightly for Bruce to stomach. "What do you guys usually do here to celebrate?"

Bruce pursed his lips. "I don't know, Clark. We eat, we open presents."

"You don't have any special traditions?"

Bruce started to say no, but as he gazed into the popping flames before him, a memory surfaced. "Yes," he admitted, not truly considering his words. "I used to carol by the fire as the embers died, right before I went to bed."

"That sounds nice," Clark warmly assessed. "You stopped when Dick left home?"

"No," Bruce answered coldly. "I stopped when my parents died and were no longer here to sing along."

Clark mouthed for a moment. "Oh," he lamely managed at length. "I'm sorry, Bruce. I know that it must be difficult to be without your family during the holidays, but it is possible to honor the past without sacrificing the joy from the time spent with the family you do have."

Bruce wanted to retort in anger, but the sincerity in Clark's tone stayed his rebuttal.

* * *

Bruce took Clark's advice to as much of an extent as Bruce was able to take anyone's advice. He refused to smile very much, but he tried to only mildly dislike Christmas dinner in the company of his friends and family rather than outright hating it. Aside from the chattering people around his table, the roast duck was at least very good. He always could count on Alfred. 

The Kents and the boys headed to the den after dinner with mugs of steaming chocolate, trays of cookies, and holiday stories to swap. Disinterested in hearing their stories, and having none that he wished to share, Bruce headed upstairs to tend to some last minute gift preparation. He was a responsible man, to a fault, but he always did procrastinate when it came to purchasing and wrapping gifts, and Alfred flat out refused to do it for him. "It is meaningless, young sir, if your gift doesn't come completely and whole-heartedly from you," the dignified elder had informed him several times. Bruce had protested that it was all meaningless consumerism and obligations to him anyway, but a quelling look from Alfred prevented him from ever revealing such sentiments again.

He may have been Batman, but even he knew not to cross Alfred's line.

He went around to the various rooms that his guests were occupying and placed his gifts to them. Thank God it would all be over after tomorrow. Just a little over 24 hours and all the garland, all the jingle, all the obnoxious forced joy would be--

"_Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o'er the plains, _

And the mountains in reply echoing their glorious strains. "

Bruce stiffened, suddenly catching the familiar notes of the Christmas tune. It was his mother's old favorite, and was always the concluding song in their traditional fireside medley. As if in a trance, the Master of the house descended the long staircase, cheerful voices reaching up to him like whispers from a dream. Memories danced around him, hazy, his father playing the antiqued piano as his mother's sweet soprano rang out like that of the angels depicted in the song…

"_Gloria, Gloria, Gloria, in Excelsius Deo."_

At first, when Bruce entered the den and saw Alfred playing the piano, both man and instrument somehow less old than he remembered them, saw Clark, Lois, Tim, and Dick gathered around a dying fire and lifting their voices in chord, he was angry. How dare Clark indulge something he had confided in him, a memory that only Alfred could have shared?

"_Shepherd why this jubilee? Why your joyous strains prolong?_

_What the gladsome tidings be which inspire your heavenly song?_"

When Clark met his eyes, Bruce instantly realized that he hadn't. The others sang happily, unaware of the meaning of the scene, full of Christmas dinner and content. Clark urged Bruce over to them and he reluctantly sat, the amber light and golden music harmoniously washing over him, over his family. He did not join in their singing, but somewhere deep inside of him, a little boy wiped his eyes and smiled into the eve.

"_Gloria, Gloria, Gloria, in Excelsius Deo."

* * *

_

Dick Grayson kicked Tim Drake in the seat of the pants as the younger boy turned the corner to make his way his own bedroom. "See you in the morning, buttface."

"May Rudolph get ahold of some Viagra and take out his newfoundenthusiasm on you." Nice. Tim was getting better at this trading insults thing; Dick felt rather proud. He laughed to himself as he entered his room and shut the door behind him.

Christmas was always one of his favorite times of the year. He would never admit it, but he had missed Bruce and Alfred terribly since he had moved to Bludhaven. It seemed years ago, the explosive rift between he and his guardian that had culminated in him disassociating himself from the one man who had taught him almost everything he knew. A pang of guilt rose at the memory, but he pushed it back. One thing he had not learned from Bruce, fortunately, was the elder's habitual regression into painful recollections. Bad things had happened in Dick's life, yes, but that didn't mean good things hadn't happened too.

He flipped the lights and crawled into bed, smiling at the memory of his first Christmas here in Wayne Manor. How scared he had been that Santa Claus wouldn't be able to find him because he had moved away from the circus! Bruce had made special effort to sit with him and help him compose a letter to the North Pole, informing Mr. Claus of Dick's change in address. Bruce never did say it, but gestures like that let Dick know how much he cared for him, for all of them.

He almost laid his head down when the silhouette of a small package perched on his pillow caught his eye. Reaching over to turn on his bedside lamp, he gawked at the label. _From Bruce, To Dick._

Bruce never had let him have any gifts before Christmas Day as a child. Dick realized that the package had to be special for him to be granted it early. Eagerly, he tore the paper off, opened the lid, and stared inside. His eyes widened at the image that met them, the young man unsure of whether he should laugh or be very cautious around his guardian from now on.

Lying inside the box was a Nightwing action figure, disturbingly beheaded. Standing posed beside it was the Batman figure that Dick had originally sent to Bruce, holding a very incriminating axe. The scene's caption dripped with Bruce's dull sense of humor.

It's a joke, Dick. Ha. Ha. Ha.


End file.
